“You can’t tell how rich a fart is”

Of course many other nearby cultures also understood that how hard or well a person works and how much “noble” blood flows through their veins rarely affects the smell of their farts. However, Tremonians were the only people to choose a leader, or brapiyum, based solely upon this quality. Persuasive or powerful men could scare or flatter the masses too easily to allow a popular vote. But a person with pleasant smelling farts was clearly a mandate from the gods.

The tradition predated recorded history. The truth behind accounts of the ancient Brapiyums like Dotalus II or Feculina the Great have long since diffused into fable and legend. Parents still tell the tales to their wide-eyed children before they sleep. And the sons and daughters of Tremonia dream of palace halls teeming with the scent of Nutmeg and Cinnamon.

The first detailed report of a Brapiyum’s rule come from the great historian Tattalus, who lived during and wrote about the life of Unstencia, the fair-winded. About her Pedopum(the week-long festival and series of trials leading up to the coronation of a new Brapiyum) he wrote:

The tables measured 30 fessa(about 20 meters) and were laden with piles of roasted goat and quail. Smaller samplings of exotic meats such as ostrich wings, giraffe haunches, peacock tails and camel humps roamed the mighty oak tables as well. Copper urns teemed with lentils, beans and the seeds of every imaginable hue from gold to indigo. Dishes full of spice and peppers that would turn a mouth to fire were brought from distant lands. Every village in Tremonia donated a wheel of cheese which was stacked into towers so high they nearly reached the vaulted ceiling…

…Ustencia ate from every plate and not a morsal fouled her perfect stomach. When her robes rustled in the great hall the only smell that issued forth was a gentle hint of jasmine.

But passing the trials of a Pedopum did not guarantee the Brapiyum a rule without controversy. Like the smell of pipe tobacco, the crepitations of one Brapiyum’s farts were comforting more than pleasing. Hechert, later known as Hechart the accuser, held the position for 5 uneventful years. Suddenly, he began refusing to be seen in public except for the most important public ceremonies. And even then, he surrounded himself with ministers. 23 of these had the uncanny tendency to disgrace him with their “misleadingly inflammatory” odor and were summarily dismissed. Rumors began to circulate that Hechart’s farts had turned from an overstuffed leather couch to a dead cow. In the streets, Tremonian children chanted:

Smelty Dealty dealt a smell
one night within his tiny cell
“It wasn’t me” he crossed his heart
and blamed a moonbeam for the fart

But Hechart, or Smelty Dealty as he was increasingly called, refused to abdicate. After his death, reforms were proposed and implemented that called for a ceremony similar to the Pedopum called the Pedopad. It was to be held every 5 years. This gave the council of village elders that supervised such ceremonies a chance to remind themselves of the proceedings. Formerly, some Brapiyums lived so long that by the time of their deaths, few of the elders had ever seen a Pedopum or were little more than children at the time. More reforms came after the Vinder scandal 2 centuries later.

Vinder was a charismatic young Brapiyum with a more canny political sense than most of his predecessors. He also appeared to have the rare gift of a large odor palatte. Some days he would smell like a blend of pine and cedar. Some days he would smell of orange peel and gingerbread. Many elders predicted that he would lead Tremonia to an age of unprecedented glory. Shortly after his Pedopum, a palace guard heard the sound of shattered glass while on duty one night. When he went to investigate, he saw a cloaked figure slipping through the East gate. He was already too far away to pursue the intruder, so he searched the grounds for clues. Eventually he found some small shards of glass which still had traces of essential oil on them, Lemongrass according to most sources. When the morning watch came to relieve him, his replacement excitedly told him of meeting the Brapiyum the day before and mentioned a distinctive “citrusy” odor. Suspicious about such coincidence, the guard reported his story to the elders. They confronted Vinder, who fortunately had not had time to consolidate his power, and discovered a large supply of incense and essential oils in his quarters. Vinder was banished from Tremonia and a new law made it illegal to trade in essential oils within 1000 fessa of the palace.

Vinder still had some supporters who tried to stir up sympathy for him in some of the smaller villages. But they were unsuccessful in convincing the Tremonian people that Vinder’s persecution came as a result of conspiracy and planted evidence.

The only Brapiyum that ever threatened to split Tremonian loyalties was Fersinia. Her farts were distinctively floral. The council of elders all agreed that the smell was irregular. But half of them thought it was irregularly great, the other half thought it was irregularly foul. In fact, the only thing that seemed regular about the whole affair was how regularly people loved or hated them. The council approved her by a slim majority. But after 3 months of controversy and ever intensifying conflict dividing families and friendships, she stepped down in the best interests of Tremonia. Her sacrifice, which was the first and as of yet the only of its kind, was finally recognized by the Brapiyum that succeeded her, Cloacles. By that time, a 70-year old Fersinia was scraping out an existence tying gribbets, the traditional clover wreaths left on Tremonian graves. He awarded her a pension that allowed her to live the rest of her days peacefully. When she died, witnesses claim her final breath was accompanied by a final burst of flatulence. Half the people present said it was the most heavenly smell they ever encountered.  The other half left the room to avoid the hellish scent. She was buried in a place of honor among the other Brapiyums.  To this day, fresh gribbets can always be found upon her capstone.

In fact the gribbet on Fersinia’s grave at this, was placed there by Fessander, the current Brapiyum. Last evening, the memorial’s caretaker noticed the residual smell of cloves and honey and felt himself singularly blessed. He will be the last Tremonian to smell wind broken by the Brapiyum.

Augusta Longbottom had a good armchair. That she was not very comfortable at the moment had nothing to do with her chair, and everything to do with the book she was reading.

“Preposterous” she muttered.

Normally, she was not the type of woman to waste her time on the scandalous scribblings of a notorious gossip-monger like Rita Skeeter. Part of her, in fact, wanted to be able to proudly say she had not so much as glanced at “The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore”. But a larger part of her wanted to hate it. She wanted to hate each and every word, and she wanted to know exactly why she hated it so she could tell anyone that brought it up quite plainly what made it such a load of rubbish.

“Absolutely preposterous” she repeated.

A sudden howling from the kitchen startled the fat pony that was grazing in a picture on the wall directly across from the armchair. It snorted apprehensively. Mrs. Longbottom lifted her eyes from the page and looked over the rims of her reading glasses in the direction of the wailing kettle. She closed the book, took off her glasses and placed them calmly on the low crescent-shaped table beside her wand and a large red handbag.

Picking up her wand from the table she made a measured sweep , “Accio teatray.”

An ovular, bronze teatray flew into the room and landed beside the book with a slight clatter. The teapot resembled a gargoyle with glowing green eyes and sharp talons that were clearly responsible for several deep scratches in the tray. It’s highly articulated musculature seemed at odds with the simple floral pattern of the cup. A dark liquid hissed out of the teapot’s snarling mouth as Augusta poured herself a cup. Before the tea had much of a chance to cool, she brought the cup to her lips and sipped.

Ashy.

“Death Eaters,” she thought to herself, ”but nothing I shouldn’t be able to handle.”

By this time a knight had joined the pony. His gasping breaths due to the obvious haste with which he responded threatened to drown out the terrible clanking of his armor.

“Worry not…milady,” He paused to breath, “ I shall help…you rout…these… vile rapscallions and…drive them away, screaming like…a herd of banshees that… stepped on a… thorny… hedgehog “

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sir Cadogan,” Augusta replied crossly, “I will deal with them myself.” Her eyes softened ever so slightly around the edges and she added, “Just, please go see to my grandson.”

The knight hesitated for a moment before mounting his horse. The pony cantered uneasily while he fussed with his helmet.  Augusta continued drinking her tea, and looked around the room taking a mental inventory. After it was clear to Sir Cadogan that she was not willing to receive his aid, he performed a quick salute with his sword and spurred the pony into the forest at the edge of the frame.

As Augusta drank the last of her tea, the front door opened forcefully and a tall robed figure leaped into the room, looked around quickly and aimed his wand directly at her, “Stupify!”

A bolt of bright red flashed from his wand and was absorbed harmlessly into the armchair. Augusta made a mental note to send a box of Sweet Mutaginger for her old friend Regina Stormwick, who had been kind enough to stitch protective runes into the fabric with spell nettle fibers.

She flicked her wand primly, “Petrificus Totalus”

The wizard’s face retained its shocked expression as it toppled onto the hard wood floor. Augusta rose slowly and slung her red handbag over her shoulder.  She walked to where a bright blue pot sat in a corner of the room. Out of the pot, a snarled mess of dark green leaves contorted into vague expressions of agony. She picked a few of the leaves. As they were separated from the spiny stems they shrieked pitifully and writhed between her fingers.

“This isn’t going to be pleasant. But you’re an Auror, Dawlish. So I expect you’ll be able to deal with it.”Augusta said.

“I bought this Horrificus for my grandson. He has such a talent for herbology.” she explained. “It’s evidently a very useful component in potions. But as I understand it, consuming the leaves with no additional preparation causes powerful sensations of pain and fear. I’m not sure if not being able to scream will make that easier or more difficult to bear.”

Augusta mumbled incantations as she rolled the leaves into a ball. “Geminio” she concluded and the small green mass duplicated in her hand. “I’m sure you’re familiar with Protean charms,” Augusta stated holding up her right hand, “What you may not know, is a Portkey created with a Protean charm will seek out its twin. I will have this one in my possession. And very shortly,” she said holding up her left hand, “the other will be somewhere within your small intestine. I also cast a few additional enchantments to make sure it doesn’t pass through your system too quickly and to hinder detection and removal.”

She placed the second ball into his mouth, “Glutio Folium.”

“In a few moments you won’t be aware of anything but your own misery.” Augusta said, “and even though your suffering may seem to last forever, the effects of this plant last a day or two at the most. So let me explain what I expect from you very clearly.”

“I simply cannot let my son and his wife suffer any more than they already have. Nor will I allow Death Eaters to extort my grandson’s obedience if and when ‘He who shall not be named’ tries to harm his parents. I need someone to protect them in St. Mungo’s by any necessary means.  I’m sure you will have no trouble being admitted, but it’s up to you to find a way to remain there. Be creative. If not because you know Frank and Alice and know how much they have suffered, then do it because if I hear otherwise, I’ll  activate this charm and feed it to a very large ruminant with extremely sharp horns.”

Without another word, Augusta Longbottom stepped over Dawlish’s unmoving body, retrieved her hat from its perch and walked out the open door.

Long ago an Elvish prince with more apostrophes in his name than consonants was walking in the forest. His mother and father desperately wanted him to marry, so they had been introducing him to a number of elven princesses. Every princess possessed at least a spark of beauty, but none of them surpassed the perfection he felt when he looked at nature.

He paused a moment to watch a large blue butterfly match the pace of its wings to the speed with which the petals of a marigold folded gently in the wind. “If I could marry this butterfly right now,” he declared, “I would do so.”

The Spirit of the Forest heard his words. It had long respected the actions of the young prince, and decided to grant his wish.

Instantly, the butterfly transformed into a lovely elven maiden with dark hair and flowing indigo robes.  The overjoyed prince rushed to her side.  But his quick motions scared her and she flapped her arms wildly about, almost knocking him into a brier patch. Eventually, she grew tired and he was able to approach her. With patience, he communicated that he meant her no harm and persuaded her to follow him to his city.

The King and Queen received her like royalty and consented to their marriage. Every day nectar was plucked from the most beautiful wildflowers and set beside a crystal goblet full of the morning dew collected from their petals. The butterfly maiden jabbed her nose at the plate and and cup, and whatever didn’t splatter on the table seemed to nourish her well enough. Then she would dress herself in a tunic that incorporated a giant eyeballs design. Not in a stylish, eye of Horus way, but with huge red-veined monstrosities that always seemed to glare as if someone replaced its lavatory leaves with poison ivy. When questioned about her fashion choices she would mumble something incoherent about predators.

Soon after they were married she gave birth. The event resulted in a week of wanton destruction as several thousand ancient scrolls kept in the library and all the robes within the royal cloakroom were consumed. The children then locked themselves in their rooms for a month. Besides cleaning up pools of spit that flowed under the door each day, the household returned to normal.

The king and queen knew better than to question the actions of the Spirit of the Forest. So they obliged the Butterfly Princess and her children as patiently as elvish royalty is trained to do. Fortunately for them, they did not have to persevere for long. The Princess only lived another month and her children a month beyond that. 10,000 torches burned for each of them at their royal funerals.

No elf said a word. The half-hearted “eyeball tunic” and “dew and pollen diet” trend died with the princess. They all understood that uttering words while walking in the forest was dangerous.  Because the spirit of the forest was generous, but it had no sense of poetry whatsoever.

“Will you continue trudging on these old tracks forever?” asked the roshi.

“I think I can, I think I can.” replied the train.

“Too much thinking,” said the roshi rapping it sharply across its metal nose with his keisaku.

“Ouch” said the train.

“You’re like a cat attempting to snare every mote of dust within a sunbeam. You journey, but where did it begin?”

“I don’t know, behind me.” shrugged the train.

The roshi hit him with again with the stick. “Your journey begins here. But where does it end?”

“Probably with you hitting me with that stick again.”

whack

“Correct” said the roshi.

“Then why did you hit me?”

“Insolence is not part of the student’s journey.”

“I never asked to be your student,” replied the train.

“Did you not,” the roshi stroked his long white beard. ” Your actions led you to this point – a point I now share with you. The tracks that lead up the mountain cannot decide they do not want to lead to the valley”

The train pondered these words awhile. And as it reached the summit the roshi’s koan allowed the train to slip into a state of samadhi. However, as gravity pulled its mass down the opposite side of the mountain it was not enlightened enough to avoid running over the roshi who had been walking silently in front of him.

to worship with bowed heads at pieced-
together rites. A brow increased
by faith will only bless or blame
a teacher. Is

a rough pile of cogged notions greased
thus? Only if devotion ceased
to grind them edgewise and became
a chance to find a better name
for truth – which is what (at the least)
a teacher is.

The eye would glimpse without a “why?”
at movements, colors, shapes:
a lump of liver, tick of clock
and threadbare yellow drapes.

It did not care when dust or spots
obscured its glass domain.
It just observed the measure and
dimension of each stain.

The blood was red. The table gray.
The patient had no hair.
The bright lights did not make it gasp.
The scalpel failed to scare.

And when it woke attached to both
a body and a mind.
It found an “I” within a blink
and quickly became blind.

“Hey Deverit.” said the cormorant.

“Hey Bill.” said Deverit.

“Still trying to figure out how the jump between branches without getting sap stuck to your fur?” said Bill shifting his weight on the branch slightly.

“Pretty much.” Deverit replied. “too bad I can’t just fly like you.”

“Eh, more trouble than its worth sometimes,” said Bill, “but speaking of flying, I just came from Afganistan. The local squirrels there love some kind of nut called a pistachio. You know me I’m all about the fish”

Deverit nodded.

“But I packed one deep in my craw so you could give it a try.” The cormorant wretched his long neck and regurgitated what looked like a small light-brown mussel.

“It’s small” said Deverit without much enthusiasm.

“Yeah,” said Bill, “But they’re supposed to taste really good.”

“Alright, thanks then. I’ll give it a try.”

“No problem,” said Bill and flew off toward the ocean, presumably to find some breakfast.

Usually pistachios are conveniently separated, allowing a squirrel like Deverit to easily pry the small nut open. However this particular pistachio, most likely one the Afgani squirrels had no patience for, had adamantly sealed itself shut. Deverit tried to crack the nut with his teeth, but it was still far too slippery from being inside a cormorant for several days.”

“Ech,” Deverit exclaimed at the fishy and slightly acidic taste.

He tried a few times unsuccessfully, before finally deciding that this could not possibly be a nut. “It must be a rock,” Deverit theorized. He threw the nut over his shoulder and forgot about it since the sap that had stuck itself to his tail during his failed attempts preoccupied his mind.

Two years later, despite the difficulties of flora from Afganistan growing in a place that was not Afganistan, a tree that had grown from the nut had produced more nuts.

“What good is a tree that grows rocks?” Deverit thought.

sive corners – ever boxed with few-
er needs and more desired acu-
ities than hands that stir at dawn.
It’s not about

how you can stop stumbling in shoes
old giants wore, but how you choose
to walk with mud-stuck steps, knees drawn
above uncreasing fields respon-
sive to the hopes you always knew
it’s not about.